


To Himling: Part One

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 07:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19883926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Having survived the Battle of the Five Armies, Fíli and Kíli turn to each other to cope with injuries, trauma, and grief.  The simple life together that they desire lies in the opposite direction of Durin's Throne.  It will take faith, courage, and help to free themselves of Erebor's web.





	1. Languages

**Author's Note:**

> PART ONE SYNOPSIS: The brothers come home to their mother's house to heal; Kíli is lost, and Fíli must find him.
> 
> This is a long work. I'm uploading it one part at a time, so I apologize for intermittent pauses.
> 
> Thousands of thanks to MSilverstar, for everything & all.

In his lifetime, a Khuzd knows no fewer than nine tongues. Each is a fortress wall, letting some in and keeping others out. 

Furthest from the center are the tongues a Khuzd learns to walk in the world. Many may they be, but to him, they are all the same. They open all doors for him, yet his own remains shut. He comes and goes as he pleases under a cloak of others’ words and keeps himself to himself. 

There is the cant used in front of outsiders to divert and deceive them. The phrases of “true Dwarvish” spoken by men are mere slang and gibberish— seeds promised but pebbles sown. 

There are the runes one rists in stone and metal, deeper in meaning than the untutored eye can read. The world reads one message in them while Khazâd read another. 

There is forge-talk, the rhythmic cipher hammered upon the anvil when there is need to speak above the furnace roar. 

There are way-signs— scratched symbols, piled stones, bent branches indicating routes to be taken or avoided. Thus do Khazâd greet, advise, and warn each other on the road. 

There are signs of hand and body— the lifted thumb or shoulder, the warning foot-tap or piercing glance employed in such places (unexplored caverns, enemy battlements, family supper tables) where open speech is risky. 

There is Khuzdul the pure, Khuzdul the unbroken, language of oaths, hammer-song of history, gift of Mahal, passed from father to child and reserved for Dwarvish ears alone. 

Then there is cradle-speech, spoken between mother and child, or between nursery-mates. Cradle-speech is to pure Khuzdul as milk is to metal. From reckless young warrior to grizzled greybeard, every Khuzd longs to hear it as one longs for home. 

The many tongues that Khazâd speak describe spheres of gradually diminishing size. Chamber exists within chamber; the farther within, the fewer permitted. There is one last language, the ninth and holiest, the tongue of the innermost chamber. A single word unlocks it. It will not be forced or rushed, for what is the use? Only two may speak it, and once the word is said, they have all the time in the world for silence.


	2. Anvil

When first he woke, he called his brother’s name. When silence answered, the only word he could utter was _No._

Through torrents of red and against restraining hands, he struggled until a voice cut through the clamor. _Your brother lives, but only just. Lie still now._

Only half-believing, he obeyed.

___________________ 

Light, intolerable on his eyelids. 

Pain, gnashing like a thousand dull teeth. 

Someone had bound his limbs and covered his face with a shroud. 

A sense of movement, of icy height; shrill keeling interspersed with the whoosh-crackle of sails filled and emptied by the wind. 

Then nothing more— no sight, no sound, no pain.


	3. Sanctuary

Stone archways passed overhead. Had he died, then? But it was not upon cold marble his kin laid him, and corpses feel no pain. 

Strong arms lifted him; the rim of a bowl touched his lips. Recoiling, he saw Kíli next to him, ghastly pale beneath spatters of battle-gore. Insistent hands guided his head back to the bowl. _Drink,_ the voice commanded. 

The draught was bitter, bitter enough to stop the heart. Now he understood. But he did not feel afraid; his brother had already partaken and lay at peace. 

_A swift end,_ he begged of the Maker. _A swift end and sweetness after._

As a child he used to dream of a flight of stone steps. Deep into the earth they led, a promise of sanctuary at the bottom. He’d run and run but never reached it. Now pain faded; haven was close. If he and Kíli were fated to die, let them descend the steps together.


	4. Soul

Does anyone remember their first breath or the spark that set their heart beating? 

For his first five years, Fíli existed without Kíli— a lump of earth, dumb and devoid of spirit. Then a baby’s cry roused him like the voice of Ilúvatar. One soul divided itself between them, bringing them into full-being together. Five years separated Fíli and Kíli, but they began life at the same moment. 

Fíli remembered holding Kíli’s tiny paw for the first time. Afterward, he’d stared at his palm with a strange wild grief, trying to understand its emptiness. He had never felt separation before; now he’d been joined and sundered, all in a fell minute. He heard his other half crying, and his own throat ached. 

Dís laughed to tell how Fíli seized the swaddling blanket and tried to wrench the newborn straight out of her arms. _Mine, for me!_ he'd insisted. But by the time he was old enough to comprehend her story, Fíli’s own arms had molded themselves around Kíli so securely that he thought Dís spoke of some other baby, some other brother. 

He and Kíli were one; they had always been one.

___________________ 

As a child, he rocked his little brother on his lap and told him about games they’d play, forts they’d build, Elves they’d battle, honey they’d steal. Entranced, Kíli watched Fíli’s lips shape the future. And when Dís tried to teach him about the Maker, he smiled, for he already knew who created the world. 

_As close as two hairs on a head,_ Thorin called them. They crowded each other as a matter of preference, sitting shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. Bunk them at opposite ends of any hall and you’d find them curled together like cats by first light. Try to break up one of their quarrels, and they’d actually cling to each other through snarls and fist-thumps to avoid being pulled apart. 

Even now, one felt uneasy without the other in his range of vision and voice. Neither could say why, and neither tried. Fíli only knew that all pain and confusion ceased when he settled Kíli against his own heartbeat— and Kíli dwelt there just as confidently, for no more perfect place existed, and he knew he would never fit anywhere better.

___________________ 

_You and Kíli are different._

Ori declared this one day while they played together. He may have meant that the brothers looked unalike — you’d have to be blind not to notice that — or that each was his own person, distinct in speech and action. But Fíli thought that Ori recognized something no one else did: he and Kíli _together_ were a thing apart, different from other pairs. To be understood came as such a relief, he forgot to ask if Ori _had_ understood. Only when he tried to articulate his feelings did he realize his error. 

Ori didn’t regard him oddly for long, and he didn’t tell anyone else— thank Mahal. But confusions like this dogged Fíli and Kíli all their lives. Teased for their strange, stubborn closeness, they became closer, stranger, more and more stubborn. 

What else could one soul split between two bodies do?


	5. Birthplace

Blue dawnlight, diffused. 

A subtle salt tang in the air. 

Gannet’s cries. 

Wood smoke and incense. 

Warmth, weight. 

Pain, constant but blunted. 

Kíli’s thumb in the hollow of his palm. 

Safety. 

Silence. 

Sleep. 

Home.


	6. Mother

Night, now, and Dís was there. 

_Why do we tell outsiders that our women are ugly?_ Fíli once asked Balin. 

_Because if they knew the truth, they’d steal them all for wives,_ Balin replied. 

At the time Fíli – who reckoned himself an expert on women despite hardly knowing any – thought it a brilliant joke. _Men abducting Khuzd wives! Wouldn’t they be surprised at what they ended up with!_ This after fierce sparring with Dís over going (or not going) with Uncle and taking (or not taking) Kíli. Now he could not imagine what possessed him to leave the one who gave him life. 

Firelight limned red her dark hair and gilded blonde the soft down of her cheek. By her breathing Fíli could tell she was asleep. He ought not to wake her but he could not help himself; with youthful selfishness he wanted his mother, and now. So he stirred, and Dís opened her eyes and whispered, _My nestling._

For a time they sat in silence. She caressed his brow as if to be certain that this was no revenant but her own flesh-and-blood boy. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it again and again.

Presently they began to converse in whispers. 

_When they brought my eldest to me, I could hardly see his face for all the blood,_ Dís said, cupping the selfsame face in both hands. 

_How did we come, Mother?_

_In eagles’ talons, four days past._  
  
_That long?_

 _We dosed you senseless with the strongest herbs so you would feel no pain while we closed your wounds. Do you feel pain now?_  
  
_Yes._  
  
_I will bring you more herbs._  
  
_And Kíli?_

Dís' eyes drifted to her youngest, who lay next beside Fíli as slack and pitiful as a broken doll. 

_The Crusher_ – by which fond epithet she meant Dwalin – _saw an iron mace bring him down. There’s three ribs and a collarbone broken, but those will mend. The blow to his head…_ She brought her gaze back to Fíli. _His spirit wanders lost._

He did not say _It will come back._ He could not know this, but only hope for it. _Forgive me,_ he said instead. For being foolish; for arguing instead of heeding; for leaving and taking Kíli with him; for bringing him back broken. 

Dís leant to kiss Fíli’s brow. _Rest, Treasure. I thank Mahal with all of my soul that my sons have come home to heal._


	7. The Island

The room in which the brothers lay was the last in a string of rooms on the uppermost storey, far from noise and intrusion. From the corridor outside, a narrow, meandering staircase led downstairs to the ground-floor pump room near the kitchen. 

Given the robust health of Khazâd, it was unusual that Thorin's hall - _Thorinutumnu_ to those who dwelt there - had an infirmary at all. But Kíli had been a sickly child, dogged by colic, earache, and fever— and since Fíli naturally could not sleep without him, much of their boyhood was spent within its walls. 

What made them love rather than dread the sickroom was its window. 

Like hobbits, the subterranean Khazâd favor cozy interior rooms to those exposed to the elements. But Thorinutumnu overlooked the sea, and Dís' sons craved fresh air. Fíli boosted Kíli up onto the deep stone sill, where they sat for hours wrapped in blankets, watching for hovering gulls through the iron grille. And on rare clear days, they could see Himling, the lonely isle across the waters. 

No one lived on Himling; Thorin said so. According to the ancient books, orcs had dwelt there long ago, but their occupancy did not last. Preferring loneliness over such vile company, the island drove them away with storm-flood and starvation. Since then, it had tolerated no others. There was a ruined fortress there, and probably ghosts, and a secret cave and a troll to go with it… 

None of this fazed Fíli or Kíli. They swore to live there when they grew up— a folly, but one that strangely pleased Thorin. Sometimes (cautiously, because he did not think he was very good with children) he inquired how they might bring this plan about. 

_We’ll steal a skiff,_ proposed Fíli. 

_Yes, and bring milk and bread and apples and honey!_ Kíli shouted. 

_And catch fish._

Thorin smiled shyly, enjoying their confidences. _And what about shelter? Will you live where the orcs lived? Or in the cave with the troll?_

 _We’ll build our own fortress, just for us._  
  
_For US!_ echoed Kíli. 

_And me, and Mother?_

Fíli tossed his head at such nonsense. _Of course._

Kíli, ten times louder: _Of COURSE!_

Dís scolded Thorin for encouraging them, but did he even need to? Her boys had caught this fever on their own, and salt air only strengthened it.


	8. Isolation

Another dawn, perhaps the next; Fíli was not sure. The bitter brew caused him to lose his place in time. He surfaced at intervals to new stitches or clean bandages, to fresh hurt or none at all. Whole days passed in an eyeblink. 

Every time he woke, he looked to Kíli in hope; disappointment drove him back into the cage of his own thoughts. 

Long ago, they were _Nadad_ and _Naddith_ , Elder and Younger Brother. When Kíli inexplicably gained inches on Fíli, they became _Nadad-Mim,_ Little Elder Brother, and _Naddith-Zanid,_ Big Younger Brother. Finally they settled upon _Mim_ and _Zanid_ , Little and Big— a confusion to those who could not tell their ages. And then there was _Sniveler_ and _Boss-man_ and _Brave Warrior_ and _Cub and_ _Flea_ and _Princess_ and _Did Somebody Speak_ and _There Must Be An Echo in This Room_ and _You’re Stupid No You’re Stupid No YOU’RE Stupid—_

A tear stung Fíli’s raw cheekbone. As a child, he trained himself to weep silently or not at all so as to avoid exciting Kíli. The habit still held, though it seemed useless now. He could scream, and Kíli would not hear— 

_Stop,_ he reproached himself. _Don’t._

He eased himself up slowly, for pain lay in wait everywhere. Splints encased his left ankle and wrist. His left eye socket ached, as did the scalp above his ear. Searching fingertips found a long ridge of stitches meandering downward nearly to his nape. Bandages swathed his chest, right shoulder, and main sword arm. But he was washed clean of blood, hair unplaited and combed; no stench of death about him, except in memory. 

Flashes came and went, chaotic. Noise. Panic. Black blood. The shirring sound of metal clashing and dragging against metal. Dead eyes staring. Thorin shouting, _Go, go._ Then himself, falling through space. 

His breath came in shallow pants as he twisted to study Kíli. The sight sent a jolt of fear through his very bones. From beneath thick white wrappings, a fearsome mass of black bruises spread over the right side of his brother’s face. His eyelids were empurpled, swollen shut. What lay behind them? Nothingness, or a Kíli waiting to be found and freed? 

Sliding closer, Fíli gingerly peeled back the coverlet to survey the battlefield of Kíli’s body. What flesh Fíli could see was like his own, livid with bruises, abrasions, blade cuts, stitches. Tightly bound strips of linen spanned Kíli’s ribs and pinioned his bent right arm securely against his breast. His left hand lay upon his stomach. Dress him in armor, place a sword upon his chest, and he would be ready for burial. 

_(I did this to you.)_

He awkwardly lay alongside Kíli and pulled the coverlet back up over them both. A deep sigh escaped him, followed soon after by more tears. This time he did not try to keep quiet. Let Kíli’s drifting spirit hear.


	9. Vigils

Time passed in half-twilight. Fíli developed a stubborn fever; his old nurse Fenja bathed him in fresh, cold seawater to bring it down. Thirst plagued him; she brewed root teas to soothe his throat. The touch of his own greasy hair against his skin maddened him; she plaited it neatly away. 

She and Dís watched over him, and he watched over Kíli. 

No wolfmother ever guarded her young as jealously as Fíli guarded Kíli. He’d taken his earliest-known battle stance with his _naddith_ on his hip; to keep his right arm around his little brother, he’d taught himself to fight with his left. Even when puny Kíli shot up like an angelica stalk, ending up half a head taller than his brother, quiet Fíli continued to stand in front— steady sky-blue eyes driving back all challengers. 

Now, half-delirious and shivering with fever, he turned the same eyes on death— daring it to even flick its gaze toward his Kíli. 

Fenja marked how each instinctively turned to his sibling in sleep. Even Kíli, so adrift, tilted his head toward Fíli as if listening for his call. This, she told their mother, proved that war might scar their separate bodies, but never their single soul. 

Dís prayed daily to the Maker that Fenja would be proven right.


	10. Awakening

An unrelenting frost descended; a thin rime of ice edged the inlet. Servants closed tight the inner shutters and fed the furnaces until they roared. 

By now Fíli could eat — voraciously — but Kíli could not. Dís spooned broth and milk into his slack mouth, stroking his throat to help him swallow. He neither moved nor opened his eyes, only slept and slept, breathing as light as a newborn. 

Fíli slept, too. He laid his splinted hand over Kíli’s slow-beating heart and traveled in dreams to where his brother’s spirit might have wandered. The cliffs, the deer forest, even Himling across the water. Awake, he talked to Kíli. _Zanid, come home. I’m right beside you; can you feel me? Come home._

One night, when a fitful wind flung ice crystals against the shutters, Kíli answered his plea. 

He'd been fathom-deep in the usual dream of the staircase. This time, the last step plunged him into an underground lake teeming with quicksilver fish. Playful and swift, they surrounded and buoyed him, let him drop and caught him again. He would have stayed among them forever if a flickering light had not distracted him. As he watched it dance on the water’s surface, it swelled and grew golden. He swam towards it, up and up and up, and awoke to firelight and Kíli’s hand covering his own. 

He pushed himself up onto one elbow. A sallow face tipped toward him. _Nnnnda…mmm,_ Kíli slurred. Nadad-Mim. 

_I’m here. Are you?_ whispered Fíli. 

_—essssss._ Eyelids flickered, slit open, tried to remain so, failed. He sounded drunk, his words more exhale than speech. _Whhhherrr… mmm…?_  
  
_Home._  
  
_Hhhhow?_

Fíli laughed. _Eagles, brother._

An amused snort; a faint pressure of fingers. Then: _…lllong?_  
  
_A sevenday shy of two moons you’ve been gone, Zanid. I’ve been everywhere looking. Now I’ve found you, will you stay?_ demanded Fíli. 

And Kíli did.


	11. Messages

Dís bound a letter to a hunting hawk’s leg and bade it fly to Dáin. She praised Mahal for sparing her sons and asked Dáin to oversee Erebor until its young Heir was fit to ascend. 

Dáin returned the hawk with a filigreed brass cylinder; it contained a thick roll of pages covered margin to margin with runes. He expressed ardent wishes for his cousins’ swift recovery, then devoted four full pages to remembrances of Thorin: accounts of escapades both brave and foolish; wise words he had heard Thorin speak; praise for his kingly courage in battle. 

Then he arrived at the point. Fires still burned deep in Erebor; much rebuilding needed to be done. The Heir’s ascension could not possibly take place for another year’s turning— if indeed he was even fit to travel then. Of course Dáin would do as his good cousin wished, and for as long as her maternal wisdom demanded. But he sincerely felt that a hale and happy King was worth the delay. 

_Give him time!_ he wrote. _Time to heal, time to grieve, time before he takes on this wretched job!_

Dís chuckled, turning over the page. How like Dáin! 

He ended with a proposal: he would come to Thorinutumnu at the new year, bearing the Crown. No law demanded a coronation on the Lonely Mountain; in their folk’s history, there had been many mountains, many crowns. Perhaps Fíli would prefer it to be done at home. Until then, why trouble the lad? 

Dís rerolled the missive and sighed. She would share it with her son, but not today, and perhaps not for a while yet. At least in this she would take Dáin’s advice: _give him time._


	12. Struggling

Kíli’s awakening galvanized a household frozen by grief. Servants invented errands to steal upstairs and catch a glimpse of Dís’ sons in their bed. Tired Kíli could only blink in greeting like a trustful cat; Fíli smiled for them both. 

Daily he grew stronger, though to remain dormant for so long frustrated him. Yet his joy in Kíli superseded all grievance; he devoted himself to keeping his brother’s head up and eyes open. The effort exhausted Kíli, but Fíli’s praise kept him trying. 

_Hands, Kíli,_ Fíli said, holding up his splinted arm, palm out. Kíli dragged his heavy eyelids open, stuck out his tongue tip in concentration, and finally matched his fingers to Fíli’s.

_Aaah!_ cried Fíli and earned a prize: Kíli’s smile. 

_Well done,_ Dís added from her chair by the fire, where she occupied herself carving ivory with a tiny knife. 

A soft tap upon the lintel. Fenja craned her head around the doorway. She entered to hand Dís a letter, then sat on the bed to cosset Fíli under the guise of inspecting his stitches. 

_It’s from Ori,_ Dís announced. She began to read aloud his faithful catalogue of the healths, hurts, and fortunes of the surviving company. Of course, no mention of Thorin; shared grief needs no reiteration. 

But Kíli suddenly grew alert. _Wh— wh—_ Frustrated, he squeezed his eyes shut, head listing to one side. _When is Uncle coming?_

He turned hopeful eyes upon each of his companions. They glanced at each other uneasily, and Dís slowly lowered her ivory work to her lap. 

_Thorin,_ she began. _Thorin…_  
  
When? Kíli repeated, impatient. 

_Oh, my boy,_ murmured Fenja. 

Kíli’s face underwent a slow and dreadful metamorphosis. Whether for the pain of his ribs or the wound to his head, he tried to speak and could not. Staring wildly, he stiffened and began to tremble all over. 

_Zanid?_ Fíli ventured, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

Kíli’s heels pushed and pedaled rhythmically against the bedclothes. Eyelids fluttered over blind eyes; a ribbon of saliva ran from chin to chest. Without warning, a gush of urine soaked the pallet; he seemed entirely unaware of it. 

_Mother,_ Fíli shouted. It shattered the terror which transfixed her, and she sprang to her feet.


	13. Shame

The healers came and went, shaking their heads. 

The servants avoided each other's eyes as they spread fresh bedding over a new pallet. 

Haya the house servant fetched warm water so that Dís could bathe Kíli. Conscious now of what had happened, he withdrew into himself like a shamed child. 

All the while, Fíli hung on to the mantelpiece, watching, waiting, aching. 

Once Kíli had been dressed and installed like an infant in bed, Dís beseeched her eldest with anxious eyes. Fíli pointed his chin at the door; impassive, she motioned to Haya to follow. 

For a long time Kíli did no more but stare down at the coverlet. Eventually he shot a miserable glance in Fíli’s direction: a plea, a cue. 

Fíli limped over and climbed onto the bed. Sitting beside his brother, he guided Kíli’s head into the crook of his shoulder and settled an arm across his chest. 

How many hours had they spent exactly like this, as youngsters? Too many to count. Nightmares. Bedtime stories. Earaches. Scoldings. And sometimes just daydreams of adventure and valor... 

_W…wh…what did I do?  
  
…Mm?  
  
I did something wrong, but I don’t rrrr. _Kíli pressed his head against Fíli’s collarbone, trying to force the word out. _Remember._  
  
_You did no wrong._  
  
_I don’t know. We, we were talking, and then I was all w-wet and everyone was llll…llooking at me. What did I do?_  
  
_Nothing, Zanid. It was an accident—_  
  
_Something bad happened. But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t remember what it is._

Fíli lowered his face into Kíli’s soft, thick hair and said nothing.


	14. Suffering

_I did this. Not the war. Me._

The healers had removed the last of Fíli’s bandages; his wounds had finally become scars. Now he submitted to Dís’ comb, but without pleasure—that task normally belonged to Kíli, the subject of his present grief. 

_I caused this suffering, all because I defied you. How can you not despise me?_

Gently untangling Fíli’s sidelocks, Dís winced. How could he even think it? But she already knew the answer. 

All his life, guilt surrounded Fíli like a cloud of stinging insects. Many a night he’d come to her – tiny bare feet shuffling on cold flagstones – desperate to confess a misdeed so minor it had gone overlooked. The firstborn’s anxiety to please always derailed his self-confidence, and it would be that much worse when he wore the Crown. All catastrophe would be his to shoulder. Her poor boy. 

_I don't blame you for anything,_ Dís said slowly. _Neither does Kíli._

Fíli looked beyond her to the fire, hopeless. _I’ve ruined him._

Dís tugged his sidelock to turn him back to her. _Listen. What ruins a man is hatred in his heart. Is Kíli hateful? Are you? No. You will limp and he will stutter, but I’d rather that than either of you feel ashamed or bitter._  
  
_How can I stop that from happening?_  
  
_If I had the experience of my own menfolk returning alive from war, I could tell you. But my father didn’t, nor my husband, nor either of my two brothers. So I don’t know. I lack the wisdom. But I love you, and I think that time and patience will cure you of this notion._

Restless in sleep, the room’s third occupant murmured and rolled his head against the pillow. Dís watched as Fíli leant to gently rub his lips against Kíli’s temple until he subsided. Then he turned back to face her. 

_I’m sorry. For everything.  
  
It’s true I wish you had not gone. But I praise the powers who brought you back,_ Dís told Fíli. _All you need do now is stay close to Kíli. Just love each other and share your strength._  
  
_How long do we have?_ he blurted, and she instantly felt the iron spike of regret. There was no need to read Dáin’s letter to him; Fíli knew his destiny as well as she did. 

Mute, she grasped his unhurt shoulder. How else could she reply?


	15. Brothers

_The sun is hiding,_ Fíli told Kíli. 

True, a blizzard raged outside; the heavy tapestries covering the walls and window plunged the sickroom into cavernous gloom. For warmth, the servants buried Fíli and Kíli under a vast bearskin rug. The brothers pulled it up until all that could be seen was a shock of hair – half-black, half-gold – snaking over the pillow. 

That morning another fit had struck Kíli; he’d had to be cleaned again. He did not want to talk about it or be looked at; only to shrink smaller and smaller until he disappeared. He did not even want Fíli to see him, but neither did he want to be alone.

Under the skin it was womb-dark and womb-close. Sightless, they felt one another’s breath on their own lips. 

_The sun is hiding; where did it go?_

Although Khazâd are notorious in the outer world for their blunt speech, amongst themselves scarcely a plain syllable is spoken. Subtle kennings, layered meanings, and hidden threads of sentiment weave through their words, leading all subjects back to love. 

_The sun is hiding._ You no longer smile. 

_Where did it go?_ I miss you. 

_The rain is hiding, too,_ whispered Fíli, lightly touching his brother’s elbow. 

Kíli could not cry. 

He’d always been one to weep freely, a lovable (if alarming) habit. Among many nicknames, some fond and some teasing, Fíli called him _magahhûn_ — mourning dove, a deeply sympathetic name. Kíli knew then that Fíli loved him and that it was no disgrace to cry. But the news of Uncle had displaced something inside him. He could not find any reservoir of feeling to feed his tears. War’s wildfire had scorched him dry. 

_Zanid,_ Fíli coaxed, kissing Kíli’s shoulder. For his pains he felt a gentle tug on his mustache. That was an answer: neither sun nor rain, but still enough. 

There had been times long ago when Kíli - small and feverish and needful - had sought his brother's nipple like a baby and fallen asleep to the beat of his heart. A great helpless tenderness washed over Fíli then, and not a shred of shame. It was so little for a _naddith_ to ask, so little for a _nadad_ to give, and in truth Fíli would have given Kíli anything then, would give him anything now. 

His brother did not prosper. He could not tend to himself. He swallowed with difficulty and sometimes choked. His speech remained slow and struggling and often absent altogether. He rarely smiled now, whereas before he hardly ever stopped. 

Yet he laughed, and this troubled Fíli and Dís even more. There was no merriment in his eyes, only confusion at the pained sound which burst out of him at the wrong moments, overloud and out of place. He seemed closest to crying then, but never close enough. 

Kíli’s traveling fingers now gathered a handful of Fíli’s beard and held onto it. Fíli shook his chin like a fractious billy goat, and a puff of breath met his cheek: surprise, maybe, or amusement. A signal that it was safe to proceed. 

_Zanid,_ he began again. _Himling is covered with snow. At least until spring._

Meaning: Your dreams are laid low now, but the thaw will come. 

Kíli made no reply. 

_We’ll steal a skiff, all right? And go there when the ice cracks. We’ll have to take some strong men along, of course. Our old troll won’t be in a very good mood after his long winter sleep._  
  
_Mim,_ said Kíli, his voice muffled by the bear skin. 

_He’ll demand to know where we’ve been. And we’ll say,_ We’ve been around the world and seen beasts far bigger than the likes of you. _Because we have.  
  
Mim._ Kíli dipped his head down until his mouth was close enough to Fíli’s ear for whispered confidences. He seemed to be searching his thoughts for something hard to corner. Then: _Uncle died._  
  
_I know, Zanid._  
  
_He_ died. 

_I know._  
  
_Someone told me. I did… didn’t believe them at first. But it’s true._  
  
_Oh, Naddith._

Kíli was beginning to tremble again. To forestall it Fíli placed his forehead against his brother’s and breathed slowly, deeply, in, out. When Kíli’s breath matched his rhythm, he began to whisper again. _When we go to Himling, we’ll rebuild the fort; that’s the first thing._  
  
_We can’t—_  
  
_We can and we will. The weather will be fine by then, and we’ll be strong, ready to work. If we don’t raise a banner, no one will even know we’re there._  
  
_But Fíli, you— have to— you’re the—_

Only Kíli could do this: place his finger directly upon that which Fíli most wished to bury. He laid his palm on Kíli’s cheek and realized with a strange thunderclap of joy that it was wet. Finally, the rain. Someday soon again, the sun. 

_Am I your Nadad-Mim?_ he asked. 

Kíli’s sniffed wetly; his chest hitched once, twice, and finally he nodded. 

_Then listen to me. We’ll take some of the old fort stones and build a new one… with a tower for us and rooms for Mother and all our friends… and then another room for all the wine and ale they’re going to bring us… and then we’ll carve a standing stone for Uncle and face it east..._

And in the dark under the bearskin, Kíli let the tears slip down and listened to Fíli murmur, _Easy, easy; there, Naddith, you see, so easy…_


End file.
